


Penance

by foxghost



Series: City of Chains [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Dom!Anders, Fingering, M/M, Power Play, Rimming, Sex Toys, Size Kink, sweet vengeance of markus hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxghost/pseuds/foxghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8832.html?thread=35277696#t35277696">prompt.</a> OP asked for ruthless Hawke, whose only soft spot is Anders...and then somebody had the gall to kidnap Anders.</p><p>PWP.</p><p>This story has art (SFW)<br/><a href="http://tmblr.co/ZTPbnuTfAIjn">Chapter1</a>, <a href="http://djkaeru.tumblr.com/post/31469488599/anders-take-me-home-i-probably-got-everything">Chapter 4</a><a></a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uncertain Morning

Cold morning light filtered through the gauzy white curtains in Hawke's bedroom. Not his choice, Anders presumed, though Hawke did keep an up with the sun schedule.

For a man so guarded, Hawke slept like a baby - which was to say that Anders had never spent more than the first day around a baby, and had only seen their milk-addled state after he coached through the first couple of feedings - and as Anders carefully extricated himself from the covers, disentangling his limbs and rubbing the tingles out of the shell of an ear, Hawke pulled him back down with one hand, still asleep, and rubbed his stubble over Anders' ribs.

The silence he tried so hard to create to keep Hawke asleep was shattered in an instant. Anders thrashed and giggled in Hawke's rock-solid grasp, "stop. That tickles."

Hawke hummed and and shook his head, sending a jolt of not quite electricity down Anders' spine; making him gasp and doubt that his lover hadn't been awake already, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

"The sun's not even up yet. Stay," Hawke's words slurred into each other, the sound edged with sleep.

Anders ran his hands through Hawke's mop of black hair, smoothing back a lock of iron gray, and the answering hum was so like a purr he smiled.

"We can't all afford to sleep in."

Over the months Anders realized that Hawke took to affection like a cat.

A big cat with very sharp claws, sheathed only when they were alone together, but he purred when he was stroked behind the ears. Anders let himself be pulled down, wrapping his arms over Hawke's broad shoulders.

If he gave Hawke enough attention, the feline part of him would let Anders get on with his day.

"I can tell when you're humouring me," Hawke freed himself from the sheets and clung to Anders instead, giving him a messy kiss that could only be called _nuzzling_ against his jaw. "Are you coming back here tonight?"

 _Here_ , not _home_ , and that distinction kept theirs a physical affair. Anders worried at his lip, unseen by Hawke, but he couldn't start complaining about their arrangement; Anders was the one who chose to remain apart, preferring to conduct his mage underground business on his own.

Justice still held a grudge, and maybe the fade spirit had a point. Their first meeting was not a harmonious one, and there was a nagging thought that Hawke was only using him.

That Anders could be seen as using Hawke for the same purpose was never taken into consideration.

"I'm busy tonight," Anders kissed Hawke's ruffled bedhead, hoping to lighten the mood, but he could feel the sulk coming on already.

The crease in between Hawke's brow came and went without a word, then, "so that's a no?"

"It's a no."

"Take along a couple of guards -"

"I can defend myself, Hawke."

Hawke drew back far enough for their eyes to meet and focus, and Anders caught a hint of fear he had rarely seen behind those seemingly cold blue eyes in the way they darted back and forth.

His hands at Anders' back shifted as though he was uncertain what to say.

What they had was yet so new, that they were without the guidance years of acquaintanceship afforded some the ability to read one another. Anders had no knowledge with which to crack the code, the language of eyes and corners of mouths and the way he tested his grip.

Though other, less cryptic messages, could be gleaned from the line of kisses pressed from his sternum to his stomach, fingers trailing over his sides, down the sharp jut of his hips. With one quick turn, Hawke had him pinned to the bed, hands clasped tightly to his as the undersides of their forearms met.

"What are you doing?" Anders asked, but it was obvious what Hawke was _planning_ to do, as he left a path of heat behind in his quest downwards, tacky skin dragging on skin with too much friction.

He nudged Anders' cock aside with his chin to bury his nose in a patch of dark gold hair, settling in between Anders' legs, breathing in deep as though savouring the scent of him. The thick muscles in Hawke's back flexed as he made himself comfortable, fitting in a small space for a big man, knees close to his chest.

Anders wished he was on the other end of the bed to run his hands over the dips in that dimpled lower back, palming the hard globes of Hawke's arse, so wanton and willing only the night before. As Hawke's mouth moved lower to lick at the folds of skin further down, feeling far too tight already, Anders stared and watch the light shift of Hawke's hips, an involuntary need to grind up against the sheets, letting Anders know that that he too, was affected.

There was such power to be the cause of that arousal; despite the imbalance in how people viewed them - the strong warrior and his weak mageling - in truth there were no anchored roles in this bedroom.

"Hawke, I can't lie in with you all morning," he twisted in Hawke's grasp, trying to turn thin wrists in hands that easily encompassed both Anders' own together.

Hawke snorted a laugh, bringing hot hair across moist skin, and Anders had to bite down a gasp, "oh, this won't take a minute."

If his hands were free, a shock of electricity might have been in order. But Hawke was good at distracting him, or at least placate him long enough by turning Anders' very words into inarticulate pleading.

Anders felt the pinch on his hip loosen and leave, one large hand disappearing out of sight. A breath landing in a hot streak on the crown of his cock a singular heartbeat later, he heard a moan so soft it was little more than air. He wanted to say _let me_ and crawl down the length of the bed so they could please each other, but Hawke held him and kept him still.

He resumed his exploration, stubble rasping against inner thigh, tongue drawing a zigzag down the line between thigh and groin. Anders was left with enough room to move, yet to thrust up constituted begging, and it was too early yet in the day for desperation.

And still inexorably and without his direction Hawke's mouth kissed down one cheek to finally touch his tongue softly, teasingly on that tight pucker, untouched the night before since their games had Hawke on his knees and begging, writhing under a stinging hand and rutting into the sheets. Now Anders could feel that smirk, a prickle of stubble as the corner of his mouth lifted up, the slide of a tongue, soft heat and coolness left behind by lingering moisture.

The remaining trace of resistance - perhaps not his own at all but of someone not of flesh and therefore not needing the closeness of skinship - faded away as the gentle probing was suddenly more, pliant tongue demanding entrance and rough callouses, a sharp contrast to velvet skin.

He should resist, _there was work to do_ , as Justice reminded him reproachfully, but even Justice had to flee from the intense want and the instinctual thrust of his hips. Desire was the realm of demons and the spirit wanted nothing to do with this entanglement.

His body relaxed though he had not known he was tensing at the silent conversation in the first place, and Hawke, ever so perceptive of his moods, rumbled beneath him, "you should tell him to get used to it."

The retort was on his lips, but Hawke never allowed him words beyond monosyllables, not in bed, and made him swallow it; rough pad of a thumb brushing across the crown, and his words were incomprehensible and loud, the words having fled.

There was moaning beneath him, the sound of a hand moving slick and wet and Anders could trace the image with his mind's eye, with the number of times he had Hawke in his mouth he could taste the salt and smoke by imagining. He licked his lips, dry from his open-mouthed gasping, dry from short vowels and hardly comprehensible words that Hawke could somehow understand. And apparently he read it as _more_ and he gave, tongue swirling, getting the muscles to relax even as Anders clenched and tightened in pleasure, balls drawing up close to his body and a fluttering low in his belly driven by a hand that held him even as he fell.

He wanted to see, to watch the curve of Hawke's arse rise and fall as he thrust into his hand, but Anders could only drop back against the pillows, hair mussed from sleep draping over red and black silk and uncaring for new tangles. All he could see was the canopy of Hawke's bed, dark and featureless but he could still hear the moans coming from below him, as though it was Anders that had his mouth over Hawke and not the other way around, with Hawke's tongue buried half way inside and his nose pressing against the sensitive bump beneath his balls.

It was that sound, that low purr of a moan, that Hawke only ever made when he licked and tasted, a sound that was recent and a sign that he was comfortable enough to vocalize at all, that drew Anders over, body stuttering with his string of gasps, shaking even as Hawke's side leaning into his leg held Anders steady, still.

Anders shook his head, holding off the inevitable, his hips bucking off the bed; each time he came apart it was never quite the same, though always Hawke did not allow him to run. When he tried to move away Hawke chased him, tongue slipping in farther as he writhed and felt he could take no more, hand enveloping his cock snugly so when Anders retreated from tongue he thrust into a calloused grip.

As if to prove that he could, Anders tried to hold on, to prolong that razor edge of sensation before the plunge. But that was a game Anders rarely, if ever, won. Hawke shifted below him, finding a better angle, plunging in deeper - and what was resistible became too much. He was lost in sensation, each tensing of muscles finding new pleasure against Hawke's tongue, an attack that would not let up until he could not stop shouting, "Maker, I'm going to -"

Then his words were as sensible as how this man had taken Anders and turned every part of his body into an instrument of need, then there was nothing at all, just his fingers in Hawke's hair, nails clawing lines in the sheets, and breath leaving him with such a sound he was certain the servants had heard from down in the kitchens.

When he spent himself in Hawke's grasp, the hold loosened as he grew sensitive but the hand remained, milking his cock to the last drop. Anders whimpered, as far to quickly any touch became too much and Hawke was licking his way back up, tongue swirling over his balls, traveling up the shaft to drink in his spend.

If he did not stop things now, Hawke would bring him back to attention and keep him in all morning. And while Anders would not mind that at all, he had wasted enough time in one day, and at that line of thought he winced; the voice of Justice had become easier to distinguish from his own since he started spending time in this bed.

Hawke crawled back above him, looking unaccountably smug - though that was a common look on him. A pink tongue flicked out to lick at his fingers, "see? That didn't take _all morning._ "

Smug bastard. If he was not so sated and sluggish right now he would pay for those words. Anders stole a glance downwards and Hawke was still impressively hard, his cock standing proud and red.

He made no move to touch himself.

"You didn't come," Anders swallowed, as the words came out rough and dry. "Do you want me to -"

"No," Hawke didn't so much smile as bare his teeth - like the predator he was. His hand was still moist with cum, and as Anders looked on, he smeared what was left on his stomach, over the long length of his cock, swiping the last of it on its tip.

Then he leaned over and kissed Anders, holding his body away just enough that Anders knew the temptation to rut against him was too much to risk.

"Are you," Anders said between kisses, "going to touch yourself for me?"

Hawke grinned against his lips, and his eyes narrowed for a split second as he drew back, "no. Come back tonight and we'll ... pick up where we left off."

His cheeks were flushed and the eclipsed light blue of his eyes belied the calm, teasing tone; a splash of cold water at the wash basin calmed the blush but it was impossible to hide his interest, plainly there for Anders to see.

"I'm not coming back tonight."

"Suit yourself," Hawke had already made his way to the wardrobe, tugging on the linen and wool he wore beneath his armor. His erection was softening quickly, a drop of cum intentionally smeared on the side reminding Anders of his own recent release.

Only now it seemed less recent and he was already half hard, thinking of Hawke carrying the scent of him beneath layers of steel. And never in words, only in the looks he gave and the gentle embraces, carrying a hidden yearning only for Anders.

"I can't," Anders said the words to Hawke's back as he slipped out the door, listening to the sound of booted feet clanking down the stairs.

Too many lives depended on him. As much as they might believe, each in his own way that what they shared was special, a momentary distraction was all this was.

Hawke stopped in the foyer, cigarette between his lips. Though he hadn't said anything about his day to Anders, his schedule was filled - and the few minutes he spent lingering in bed meant he had to skip the quick bath and the time spent smoking on his balcony.

Not wearing a helm could be very dangerous even during the day, but he couldn't risk going without his bane, either.

It was not a good day to dawdle; there was a gang war raging in the undercity - which Hawke was simply waiting out, no point joining in fights that decimated his enemies - and his mage insisted on trouncing about in darktown. Certainly Anders had been safe enough on his own before, but on top of the constant threat of templars, Hawke's enemies were now _their_ enemies.

If Anders could be persuaded, Hawke would have him live in the mansion openly, where there were guards posted at every exit. On days where he must work in the clinic, Hawke checked on him by lunch time, and if he could not, he sent his people. It was not nearly as much protection for his lover as he would like, but Anders would not tolerate more.

Sometimes he wondered how Anders had remained safe for so long when he was obviously no good at hiding from anyone. The goodwill of the people he healed could only go so far; if a family starved long enough, the bounty on an apostate would become too attractive to turn down, even if the apostate had saved your life thrice over.

The barracks weren't far at all, just on the west end of hightown. Hawke flicked the ashes off the tip of his cigarette, putting it out between his thumb and forefinger. He considered it for a second; it was burned down most of the way but not enough for another light. Instead of tugging it behind his ear as was his habit he dropped the end to the ground instead, turning his heel on it once to crush it into the stone tiles.

He was just turning the corner where the stairs took him to the courtyard of the larger mansions of hightown - where the noses were turned so high one saw nosehair before a person, it was a wonder the nobles could see where they were going - when the boy bumped into him.

"Sorry, Messere," he couldn't have been older than eight, and a scrawny one at that, with strong Ferelden features.

If he was paying more attention, Hawke might have noticed that while his voice was high-pitched and a little winded, he did not look fearful at all.

He pushed the boy with enough force away to make him stagger a few steps - not enough to make him fall, but plenty for the people in hightown to keep their assumptions intact - before spitting out a quick, "be off with you."

And the boy dashed away, common reaction enough in the face of Hawke, a hint of red silk tucked up his sleeve.


	2. Choices

There weren't that many big men in hightown; void, there wasn't a man as big as Markus Hawke anywhere unless one was looking in the Qunari compound by the docks.

Hawke was a living juggernault, and one did not try to set a tail on him without risking loss of limbs or other less visible body parts; the leader of the Red Irons had a reputation of showing them to his enemies before killing them, as detailed in Varric Tethras' Tales of the Red Hawk, volumes two to four. The first volume was rather tame, but the press had been busy since volume two when Varric claimed that Hawke had slain a dragon with his bare hands.

People were deathly afraid of Hawke. He was also well-guarded, and often seen as too much trouble to tackle for any given group. From time to time, gangs had tried, and failed, to capture The Hawk. Warriors were too obvious and rogues could find no entrance into the mansion with its army of guards and its intentionally narrow and confusing corridors.

But the street urchins, orphans of the Blight from Ferelden and such - they were everywhere and possessed a mundane kind of invisibility. They ran messages and carried parcels, and no one paid them any mind.

Evelina called him Cricket; he was small enough to fit through the bars that came down over most gates in Kirkwall, and he scaled walls as well as any boy. Criket probably wasn't his real name, but it was the only name he knew.

There was no more Evelina, no more mother; Walter was out working at the docks and Cricket was too young to be hired for anything except courier work, but the legal jobs - and not the important ones with sealed envelopes and fancy packages that paid well - barely allowed him coin for bread enough to keep him on his feet.

He was fleet footed and knew how to dodge the guards; Cricket fit all the requirements to work for any undercity gang. Not all work was dangerous, either. Sometimes he fetched merchandise for the shopkeeps and the whores, and he preferred the whores; their parcels were often light and they tipped better.

Pickpocketing, on the other hand, was dangerous work. But he was promised a whole sovereign for this particular job; five coppers were enough bread to fill his belly, and if he was careful with the gold, a sovereign could keep his surrogate brothers and sisters, most of them younger than he, fed for half the year.

"There's another sovereign in it for you if you take this basket to the healer," the herbalist tied the red handkerchief around the handle of a straw basket, laden with small bundles of elfroot and fresh fruit, a loaf of fresh bread sitting on top of it all.

It was a lot of money to turn down, but Cricket already had a whole sovereign in silvers tied to the pouch at his waist, hidden beneath his tattered tunic. He had taken the little ones to the healer before, and he had mended Cricket's own bruises and cuts with a smile.

"Can't you send someone else?" Cricket was fast enough that he could probably make it down to the clinic before anyone the coterie would send in his place. Giving the healer enough warning to not accept the basket or at least not eat the food from it. "There's a lot of fighting going on in darktown right now."

It was where he lived, in a little shack Evelina built them. The only thing that saved them from the fighting was that they truly had nothing worth stealing - except for the slavers, perhaps, who wanted what was left of their lives.

But if one was quick and quiet enough, even the slavers didn't know where to look.

"Then you best get home to take care of the brats then, eh, Cricket?" The old man handed him the basket despite his protests, and added, with not a change in tone at all, "the clinic is on your way home, isn't it?"

The coin burned hot by his waist as Cricket left with the basket in his hands, taking the empty alleys between buildings that even a child his size could barely fit through.

Choices; they were precious, unattainable things, more rare than gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short. The next chapter will be up in 10 minutes.
> 
> (One update for the kmeme but I wanted to break it up here)


	3. Missing Half

It all boiled down to Anders' damned influence. Hawke was trying to make peace with the Coterie where only months ago he would have just let the gangs burn themselves out. Athenril would then pick off the stragglers, taking in the leaderless, lost fighters, bringing them into his ranks.

But now they were fighting practically in front of the clinic and he just couldn't have that. All the wounded end up exhausting the darktown healer and Hawke would much rather be the one personally responsible for any exhaustion Anders could complain about.

There would always be those caught in the crossfire, Fereldan like himself, but in the past he was able to ignore it - the world was divided into the strong and the weak, and if they were strong enough to work for him, he'd protect them all. The rest were collateral damage.

The term was impersonal and it grouped people with things and somehow their deaths became easier to digest.

He had no time for sentiment, at least not before he met Anders; his mage was a bleeding heart healer and liked to remind Hawke that after a busy day in the clinic, if innocents were caught between the gangs he was the one who had to heal them, cutting into what little time they had together.

Hawke gauged the hour by the way sunlight cut across the walls in his office; it was already early afternoon. Food had been delivered to Anders by now, and hopefully Gail would come back with a report of just how hectic the clinic had become in the past few hours.

Someone was _knocking_ at his door, wearing metal gauntlets. Usually he expected Fenris to be just outside, waiting for a command to come in as though he was anything less than a friend, but Fenris was on the coast today, guarding a shipment of lyrium.

"Come in," anyone wanting to kill him would have had to fight through the hundred or so mercenaries living in this building; there was only one person capable of such a feat, and fortunately that was a friend living in Antiva.

"Messere," Hawke sighed; he was never going to get used to that. Kirkwallers were far too hung up on the honorific thing. Gail took a breath and collected herself, shaking loose her short red hair, flattened by a helm. Stalling, as if she was about to deliver the ultimate of bad news. "The clinic's closed, messere. I knocked but no one answered. There was a line-up outside -"

"Did you ask them how long they've been waiting?" Hawke did not believe in fear, often channeling the feeling into an immediate need to act on danger. But in that instant his stomach dropped out from beneath him and he felt empty and strange, as though a part of him had been hollowed out.

Anders was not likely to leave the clinic halfway through the day. He always tried to work through his patients before continuing on with the mage underground; the wounded and sick were always more urgent than the cause.

 _His_ lover going missing during a gang war could not have been a coincidence.

"Since late morning."

Of course, no one would have had a concrete time to go by, things in darktown being as they were. No chantry bells to remind the refugees of the passing of the hour, not enough coppers between everyone in the clinic to afford a noon time meal.

Hawke could only be certain that templars did not take him; Carver would have informed him by yesterday if that was the case. That left the coterie, the carta, any rogue templars he forced out of the order, the anti-Qunari group who thought he had something to do with their leaders' disappearances, and the anti-Ferelden elements who wanted Hawke out of hightown.

Most of the city, basically.

"Lost something, Hawke?" He had forgotten that the door was left open, and Gail turned, blades at the ready.

Varric held his palms up, Bianca still firmly slung on his back.

"If you have anything to do with this -" Hawke was usually better than this; if he could not hold in his anger he could not have made such a splash in hightown. The snarl behind his words now must have made him seem a wild beast.

Hawke realized that he did not particularly care about appearances, at the moment.

"- The mage is our mutual friend, remember?"

Varric was not as much a friend as he was a business informant, and not one he trusted entirely, either. "If you have something to contribute, I suggest getting right to the point. I have no patience for bullshit today."

"Do you ever?" Varric snorted a half not-quite-laugh, but he continued on right afterwards, since one did not keep an agitated Hawke with a greatsword in his hands waiting. "The coterie has him - I just came back from the Rose, and Harlan claims he doesn't know anything about a kidnapping. I believed him."

"Get to the point," Hawke sheathed his sword, one-handed, showing Varric that Hawke would probably toss him across the room if he didn't hurry up with the damned story.

"Brekker. Anti-Ferelden. Has a hideout in the sewers." Varric counted off quickly and snapped his jaws shut. He seemed to ponder for a moment before opening his mouth again, "Bianca and I can come along, if you need an extra - nevermind."

As if Hawke wouldn't turn this into a bloodbath, either way. Varric had no intention of getting caught anywhere close to that sword while Hawke the Berserker was in a mad rage.

Hawke strapped on his gauntlets as Varric left the room, rather quickly for someone claiming to be a friend.

"Gail, send a messenger out and bring Fenris back from the Coast." He was hours late to begin with; every minute, every second was another moment Anders' life hung in the balance.

"You don't mean to go alone?" Gail called from behind him, and he only turned to speak to her - wasting more time - because she seemed of a mind to follow him.

"They want me to go alone. They want a chance to take me down." Hawke sighed, migraine blooming behind his eyelids. He had lost track of time and missed his last dose of magebane; now there was no time at all.

Gail was one of his circle of trusted guards, and one of the two he assigned to check on Anders when he couldn't be there himself. She was concerned for both of them; he understood that.

"I can follow in the shadows. Let me come with you," she said.

"If I don't go alone, they'll slit his throat in front of me."

She turned pale, but the words stopped her from taking another step, "you don't know that."

Most of his mercenaries had no idea what he did to people, bending the law and keeping templars happy on their dust and their poisons. All so they could spent less time hunting for apostates and more time playing with the ones they kept. Those who worked for him only knew him as their boss, the one who micromanaged their training and put enough experienced men on each job to lower casualties.

He was their protector, so he was also a bit of a hero. Romanticized and unreal, and impossible to live up to.

Hawke was too much of a realist to go along with those delusions.

"I know it's what he'll do," he pursed his lips, squeezing out a smile that wasn't. "Because that's what I'd do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \o/ thank you for reading this pair still.
> 
> *kisses*
> 
> Today is a busy saturday, but hopefully I'll get some editing in and have more for this tomorrow.


	4. Monsters

Fighting was butcher's work. People made up fancy names for it, sure, but when it came down to the dirty details, people were meat and swords were prettied up cleavers. If he ever stopped to think about what he was cutting into, Hawke wouldn't have lasted all the years on the run with his family, all his years as a hired sword.

Most of the fighting was taken care of by the mercenaries under his command anyhow, and they outnumbered the Kirkwall guard two-fold. His involvement was welcome in some of the more difficult jobs, as Hawke was an army all on his own, but he hadn't had to lift his sword in a month.

It was liberating to walk into an ememy's lair alone, knowing full well that there would be blood at the end of it. Hawke changed his grip, sweat soaking through the wrappings inside his gauntlets. His armour felt lighter; the ache in his head eased. Whatever small pains that had been bothering him disappeared as his body prepared for battle.

No matter what these people were after, he couldn't risk Anders. Whether they planned on ransoming his lover back to him or have him trade places with his mage, Hawke only had one goal in mind: slaughter every last person responsible.

Next time the Coterie would think twice about hurting the people close to him.

Hawke stepped right into a claw trap, winced, and raised his sword, deflecting a volley of bolts from the nearest wall. Annoying, but not fatal, and he was in full plate so the bolts would have just bounced off his armour anyhow. People generally avoided traps, but Hawke knew that setting off enough of them was a good way to call your enemy out of hiding. If a corridor was uninportant and he was going the wrong way, it wouldn't have been trapped all to the Void.

He was definitely on the right track.

This was proven again as an arrow whizzed by his head, and he turned just in time that the second arrow glanced off the side of his helm.

"They told me you were hard to kill."

"You have no idea," Hawke saw the fear in their eyes and grinned, licking across the edges of his teeth; most people had heard of him, but seeing Hawke in person was humbling, from the way he walked as though his armour was made of tin, to the faint smile he wore even while he was surrounded by impossible numbers, he was nothing but impressive.

Behind his helm his cold blue eyes glimmered, and in the haze of battle readiness they were always too wide, so wide that he showed all the whites around his pupils.

"And you must be dying to know what happened to your mage, aren't you?" This speaker had to be Brekker then, because everyone else here remained silent, letting him talk.

They were in battle stance, daggers in hand and pacing, and Hawke couldn't help noticing that for all their show of solidarity their pacing took them away from him and the circle widened. Gang loyalty was one thing but no matter how one looked at it going head on against Hawke was suicide.

"What do you want? Money? I can arrange that," Hawke lied through his teeth; morals were wasted on these people.

He did not miss the irony of how it was always wasted on him.

"You want to buy your whore back? Fereldan. You come here and take our jobs, and you think you can just throw money around?" Hawke bristled beneath his armour, the flexing of his abdomen brought a small itch; a part of Anders was still there, rubbed into his skin.

His mage was coming home tonight. Hawke kept his promises.

"Where is he?" Hawke spoke slowly, far too quiet, but the men here barely breathed, afraid of what their leader would say. His words echoed.

Brekker laughed, showing a mouth full of black and yellow teeth, and crooked his thumb towards a nailed-together stack of wood that passed for a door in darktown, "my men's been having fun with him over in there."

Hawke pointed his chin down towards his chest, hiding his eyes, and laughed. Just when he thought the stupidity of these people - no, the gall of these people, that they would dare taking something of his, let alone someone - could not surprise him more, they continued to exceed his expectations.

It was a ludicrous taunt. He was a fool if he fell for it. And yet the images crossed his mind nevertheless; Anders on the day they met, easily subdued with drugs and words and good will. For all the hardship he claimed he suffered, Anders possessed a naivety, an ability to place trust in those he should not.

The corner of his mouth twitched again, his head bowed and eyes on Brekker's boots. It was deceptively subserviant; it was also the one angle in which the archers standing high couldn't get at his eyes.

His gauntlet tapped against his faulds, making a clanging sound, by all appearances he was thinking, and the tension drained out of the room momentarily as everyone mistakenly thought Hawke was not about to kill them all.

Hawke grabbed the dagger kept by his waist and threw it into the middle of Brekker's abdomen.

By the time he fell, clutching at the blade and squealing, Hawke already had his sword in one hand, swinging it effortlessly behind him, for those were the first to think they had a chance.

Greatswords; people expected him to need two hands to use it. Hawke let them make their first mistake. Then he never gave them a chance to make a second.

The first five men who tried to rush him died with his scythe of a sword, not given enough time to scream before he cut them clean in halves. Blood rained on his breastplate, the top of his helm, the greaves that covered his legs, but it was dark here and his armour was enameled in black, with here and there a hint of red for embellishment.

It was made this way to hide blood stains.

Hawke could taste copper in his mouth; a sickening, salty taste of _wrong_ that he associated with victory, and he wondered if it made him any less human, if the taste of blood drove him on as much as it empowered demons. The ache in his joints melted away on the next swing, and the lightheaded euphoria of bloodlust coursed through his veins. Everything around him slowed down, save for his body, moving faster than even the rogues and the strength behind every strike amplified by his rage.

If one was to stop him now and ask him why he was angry and who he was fighting for, Hawke could only roar.

If anyone could stop him. Even Fenris knew better than to try.

Hawke knew this game; pick off the leader and the rest would scatter. Half the gang had fled by the time Brekker hit the ground, and the rest soon realized that the chance of any one of them taking the tall man down was nil. When at last he stood alone, the blood sluggish black and glistening in torchlight dripping off the end of his blade slowing to a trickle, Hawke started towards that sorry excuse for a door.

None of Brekker's "friends" came out of it throughout the entire fight. Hawke could only hope that he was lying - that his mage was only tied up in the corner, unharmed.

Hawke stood outisde, watching how his gauntlet stained the wood, and took a deep breath, slowing his heartbeat somewhat.

He felt something almost wholly alien, a dip in his stomach as though it dropped away, a sudden need to _flee_ as he pushed the door open, before he even saw anything. Part of him had trained himself out of the flight reflex; a man in his position could not afford to be afraid. Anders was the only person he cared about right now who would not consent to his idea of protection, despite knowing how vulnerable he was working in that clinic by himself everyday.

The next "room" was only a corridor, a part of the mining tunnels that led from one large section of the sewers to another. The other end of the corridor had an open door, and if there were others here, they had fled as soon as the fighting began.

Brekker was telling the truth.

Some of the truth.

There were two straw pellets in opposite corners of the room, and Hawke saw where he was going but not quite how he got there, until he was kneeling in front of the one thin straw mattress that held his Anders.

He hadn't been diligent enough. He hadn't been protecting him the way family should have.

Hawke slipped an arm beneath Anders' neck and lifted him up gently, mindful of the spikes over his gauntlets. Anders' cheeks were pink, and when Hawke touched their foreheads together to test his temperature, he was just a tad too warm, no more than a low-grade fever.

"Hawke?" Anders said, breath ghosting too hot by Hawke's nape.

"I'm here," if Anders knew how scared he was then, he did not show it, or perhaps in his drugged, fevered haze, he could not tell. Hawke tried his best to keep his voice steady, "let's get you home."

He didn't want to push - not since the first day when Anders turned him down. If he spent any time with Hawke at all he did it on his own terms; his life continued the way it was, days spent in the clinic and nights working for the underground. Whenever he had spare time - and to Justice's chagrin Anders made time for Hawke - he spent it in the mansion, and Hawke was happy enough that Anders chose to be there when he could.

But he never tried to push for any more than what they had, and he appreciated Anders' need for distance. If Anders was any closer to him, he would only see all the flaws, the trail of corpses Hawke left behind him as he made plans to take the throne of Kirkwall.

"Home?" Anders repeated the word in his arms, and the tone was new, raw and not masked by the space between them - surprise? Happiness? Hawke wasn't sure.

Anders' breath was sickly and smelled of deathroot. Corrupter agent. The faint alcoholic stink of concentrator.

Hawke should know. It was his formula.

Anders lain in his old coat, a small bloodied corner by his shoulder obviously the spot where Brekker applied the magebane. His trousers were still laced on, and beyond the obvious wound at his shoulder, there were no other stains on his clothes.

The pain in his chest disappeared as the pressure eased, though it only shifted and his headache returned. Others might have invoked the name of the Maker or his holy bride, but Hawke never believed, and he knew that if he wasn't keeping a close watch on his lover, he wouldn't have known to look for him until morning.

"The boy," Anders mumbled garbled words that Hawke barely understood. "Is he all right?"

"Who?" Only then did he remembered the second pellet in the room, the one he barely glanced at.

That was rather strange; Hawke never missed details such as that - someone might have stabbed him in the back long ago if he was not aware of possible danger behind him.

There was a vaguely familiar looking boy lying on top of that pellet, and his back rose and fell ever so slightly with each breath.

"Who is that?" Hawke asked, but Anders stared back at him, glassy-eyed and unhelpful. "What's a kid doing here?"

He couldn't very well leave him here, not with a dozen dead bodies in the next room and one still breathing with his instestines punctured. Hawke laid Anders back down on the pellet; the danger had passed, and his mage was alive.

It gave him time to take care of some unfinished business.

Brekker, with a blade still embedded in his midsection, crawled slowly towards one of the bodies that littered the ground, looking for a potion or some bandages, no doubt.

Hawke took his time, clanking his boots all the way to the fallen man, and stepped on the back of one of his knees.

Then he stepped on the other one, grounding down with his heel because Brekker could still crawl with one knee if he was stubborn enough.

No one could heal that. Not even with magic. The resulting screams might have woke the boy, but at the present moment, Hawke didn't much care. He picked up Brekker by the pauldrons of his leathers, rolling his shattered knees on the ground in the process.

"Do you know how long you can live on a stomach wound like that?" Hawke grinned, heedless of the sounds coming out between those yellow teeth and the thrashing of Brekker's arms, weakly flailing to punch at Hawke's armour. "Hours. If I keep feeding you potions, days. Watered and fed? The record is four months. Would you like to see if you can try for longer?"

"...not human," Brekker wheezed and spat out the words. "You're a monster."

"No shit. What made you think that this was a good idea?" Hawke dropped him, three feet to the ground but the man had no working limbs to catch him, and he landed on his shattered knees.

There was nothing but pain left for Brekker, only pain and the convulsions of shock. Hawke placed a single, potent health potion just out of his reach; a tiny vial of his own personal formula, stuff he was selling for five sovereigns each to anyone who wasn't part of his mercenary company.

As Brekker's hand crept out, slow and trembling, trying to take the small vial, Hawke bored down with a metal boot. Their eyes met briefly and Hawke smiled with the corner of his mouth, and grinded Brekker's fingers into the ground the way he would a spent cigarette.

"You will live a good long while," Hawke said quietly, after the screams subsided, a touch above the sound of Brekker's laboured breathing. "And for every second you live, you will wish I killed you now."

When he looked to the door again, the boy stared back at him from the open doorway, his mouth open in shock with what he witnessed.

"You," Hawke's eyebrows came together, the craze of bloodlust - still there, always ready to strike at a moment's notice - making his eyes seem too bright. His steps echoed in the stillness, off lichen covered walls, recognition and anger mingling. "You're the boy from this morning."

Cricket shook, light as an autumn leaf at the onset of winter, barely hanging on to the frame behind him with clawed fingers.

Every day at noon without fail, Gail or Fenris delivered a basket of food and herbs to the clinic, its top tied off with a square of red silk. Anders might have been suspicious of this one, but not if the scarf was doused with deathroot smoke.

A half-smoked cigarette grounded into the tiles, scraped up into a satchel and delivered.

Hawke grabbed the boy by the front of his shirt and lifted him. Cricket kicked once, bare foot meeting metal, and gave up the fight entirely.

"How much was his life worth?" Hawke shook him just once, and the boy's teeth rattled in his head. "How much is your life worth to you? Answer me!"

Behind him, Brekker began to laugh. Cricket sobbed quietly, afraid of angering Hawke even more.

"Life lesson, kid. Not," Hawke pushed the boy against the door frame, where the splinters dug into his neck and a jagged piece of wood raked a bloody line in his back. One large hand closed over his windpipe while the other let go, leaving him hanging. "That it matters."

Cricket held on to the sides of that gauntlet, his feet kicking, bloodying his toes on sharp bits of armour. His ears grew warm as he struggled to breathe; his mouth filled with the taste of coppery blood.

He was a monster.

Hawke did not need Brekker to tell him this; he was not the only killer he knew, and since he began working as a mercenary he was often in the company of others responsible for higher death tolls. But they didn't torture people the way he did. He wasn't adding to his guilt any more just because this was a child.

Women and children could be as guilty as any man. There was equality in death, for all.

He could not feel the heat or breath or touch through the hard shell of his gorget and helm, but he knew Anders was behind him, skin flushed with fever by drugs Hawke sold into the blackmarket. His arms came to wrap around Hawke's waist, head lolling to one side with weakness, lips pressed to metal, a barrier between them so wide Hawke could not feel him.

But Hawke knew he was there.

"Hawke, let him go."

"Do you see?" _Do you see what I am?_ "He led these men to you."

"I'm fine," Anders' arms held him tighter, his hands meeting in front of Hawke's stomach. "If you kill him ... you'll regret it."

"I won't. Don't presume you know me." Hawke gritted out between clenched teeth. "You don't know what I'm capable of."

"I do know you," Anders had warm, soothing hands, and they traveled beneath his helm, pulling at the buckle. A moment later it hit the ground, loud enough to drown out Brekker's screaming, as Anders winded his fingers into Hawke's hair, sweat dreanched and slicked back with what little blood that made it past the barrier of steel.

_"You saw what I am," Anders stared down at the bodies around them. There were clean cuts, where Hawke's blade had been; then there were also crushed bones and torn limbs, something pink and white under Anders' fingernails that he did not want to recognize, but as a healer, he did._

_Hawke held him, equally bloodied, tucking Anders' head under his chin. "That doesn't matter to me."_

Hawke never examined the blood on his hands, soaking through the seams in his gaunlets to soak into the wrappings to coat his hands, easily washed away at the end of each day; he killed people for a living, and he had no intention of going mad with guilt. There were regrets - mistakes had been made - people were sacrificed - he distanced himself with words.

His hands were free and he had not noticed when he released the boy.

"Come here," there was blood on his face, but Anders wiped a thumb over Hwake's lips, ignoring the smear of red over his jaw. He hooked his fingers under Hawke's pauldrons, urging him to duck his head down until they met, in a not quite fitting, familiar kiss. "Take me home."

His heart was racing again, but for a different reason this time. He had more than a place to lay his head, exhausted from his long days; he had a place to call home, with someone who knew who he was, what he was.

Hawke lifted the mage into his arms; with any luck, either Gail or Fenris would follow the obvious trail of sprung traps he left behind.

Cricket huddled into the pellet, shivering, after having determined that he would live at least another day.

"Hey," Hawke said and the boy glanced up, silencing the terrified scream that threatened to escape by snapping his mouth shut. Hawke looked straight at him, stern, "if you need a job runnig errands or whatever, go see Varric at the Hanged Man. Tell him Hawke sent you."

His mouth was hanging open again, and the voice that spoke was hoarse and barely a voice at all, "thank you Ser, I - um - I'm sorry I -"

"Shut up before I change my fucking mind," Hawke could swear he felt Anders' lips twitch against his neck as he smiled. He gave Brekker a kick in the ribs, for appearance' sake. "Keep working for the Coterie, and you'll end up just like him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter [has art](http://djkaeru.tumblr.com/post/31469488599/anders-take-me-home-i-probably-got-everything)!
> 
> ;3;
> 
> Thank you for all the love.


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.
> 
> Really, really nsfw.

Hawke carried a permanent signature of deathroot, a sickly sweet smell, reminiscent of flowers blooming in a graveyard. Even freshly laundered, his pillow - covered in red silk and black edging, its cover embroidered with the Amell crest, in case it was lost somewhere, no doubt - carried the same scent.

Anders had always felt at home in an apothecary. From the silence it afforded him and the texture of fine powdered spindleweed between his fingers; the taste of fresh elfroot juice, sweet and tingly on his tongue; how his mind got lost in dreams of freedom as he turned the mortar in pestle, plenty of time to ponder his next escape while he busied his hands, the apothecary was a refuge. Templars were seldom stationed in the herbalist's work room in the Ferelden tower, and the single one who stood guard were often reduced to errand boy by one of his favorite tutors.

Ignes. The terror of the garden and keeper of the apothecary. Anders smiled just thinking about her and the way even the Knight Commander was cowed by her audacity.

Hawke's room had a corner devoted to his work, and herbalism seemed to be as much a hobby as it was _a living,_ as he called it. Anders turned his nose into the pillow, breathing in the scent of home.

Deathroot with a hint of corrupter agent, sweet and ever so slightly alcoholic; the air Hawke breathed out, the taste of his skin after a bath, rare warm days on the balcony leaning on his shoulder as his dark hair dried in the sun.

Anders opened his eyes to Hawke's room in the mansion, silent but for the occasional splash of water through an open door to the bathroom. It was quiet, and too dark for day even with the drapes closed, and they were never closed. When he tried to get up his limbs were heavy and he felt too hot for sleeping in the nude, where the sheets clung too tightly his skin prickled, and where it touched him it tingled with heat.

Rolling over on to his own pillow again he found it moist and a little cold, and touching his hair informed him that it had been freshly washed and toweled dry.

He remembered - ceilings. Long winding passages of uneven, overhanging rock. His nose pressed against a racing pulse, blood drying on warmed metal and arms beneath him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Further back he could find only fragments, a familiar basket delivered by unfamiliar hands, a boy who would not meet his eyes when he spoke, waking with a headache and an _ache_ elsewhere and lust coursing through his veins. Then the men who surrounded him as he curled in on himself, listening to their taunts and threats as none dared to actually touch him while his blood burned.

Then the boy speaking up to defend him only to be backhanded so hard it knocked him to the corner of the room.

Anders wished he could fight then, but another dose of magebane cut off the sluggish trickle of mana. He did not remember what happened afterwards as sleep took him, but when he woke again it was to the clanging of metal and the sickening crunch of bones breaking, and he could feel a pressure in the air he was familiar with by now, the uncontrollable wall of energy that surrounded Hawke when he went without his magebane.

He swore out loud as he remembered what happened next and sat up straight in bed, clutching his head in both hands, suddenly overcame with dizzying vertigo. The drugs had not worn off completely, and orichalcum outlasted the bane. For once Justice had no complaints about not being on his feet and working for the cause, and whatever the reason, Anders was grateful for the peace and a brief rest.

For one smidgen of a second, he considered leaving, and never coming back again.

But those were not his thoughts. It was the part of him that saw the world in black and white, not the human part of him, the part that forgave and understood. _Justice,_ he chided the spirit, _he would have done the same for us if we were the ones that lost control._

He wondered how Hawke was feeling - probably guilt-tripping himself again, keeping all his emotions in, calling himself all sorts of names in his head. Anders looked down at the cover bunched up in his hands and smiled; they already knew each other far to well.

He pulled on one of Hawke's spare house robes after failing to find his own clothes. Naturally, it was too big, and even with a cloth belt cinching the waist he thought it looked rather ridiculous, his shoulders were too narrow for it and the sleeves came down right past his hands, the hem falling just short of his knees.

Anders skirted around the bloody boot prints, stopping to stare at the set of armour piled in a heap outside the bathroom door. He had thought it far too clean when he first saw it, months ago, but the black and red enamel was chosen to hide blood well. The carpet would probably have to be replaced; there was a dark pool around the pile, and even the wine red carpet could not hide that stain.

Beyond the door to the private bathroom were clean stone tiles, a spot of crimson here and there from what Hawke's helmet hadn't manage to catch. Hawke was meticulous with his bathing habits - always washing all the blood off first and scrubbing before even getting into the water - and the water in his bath was clear, covered in a layers of suds but clean.

Anders waited by the door and watched him for a minute. Everything echoed here, even his own breathing, and Hawke was no doubt aware of his presence. His arm hanging over the side of his oversized copper tub flexed, but his eyes remained closed. A permanent grimace, the one that he wore constantly, warning everyone who should come near of his sour disposition, was firmly in place.

Anders found himself smiling; at the way Hawke's hand curled and uncurled as though he was just daring Anders to announce himself; at the hard line between his brows and his need to look completely serious even as his mouth threatened to break into a smile.

"How long do you intend to stand there and stare?" Hawke asked, eyes still closed. His voice gritty, sleepy even.

Anders thought about how long he had been sleeping himself, and judging by how he felt - how strong Justice seemed in his mind and the easy flow of mana - it must have been six, seven hours at least.

Steam rose from the surface of the water, scented with bayberries from the candles he loved so much. Halos bloomed in each reflected flame, and Hawke was _perfect_ by candlelight, droplets of water on his shoulders, collecting in the hollow at the base of his neck.

"Long enough to make you uncomfortable," Anders sat at the edge of the tub - the water soaking through his robe immediately, but he wasn't planning to keep it on for long.

He pushed the wet hair back away from Hawke's cheeks. His eyes opened when they touched, dawn blue and deceptively cold.

"Are you all right?" They said at the same time, and Anders snorted back a laugh while Hawke gave him a dirty look.

"Why would you ask me that?" Sometimes they would talk just like this, but not often enough; too many nights they met when it was far too late for talking and only time for a quick fumble in the dark before falling asleep.

Hawke touched a hand to Anders' chin, rasping thumb over rough stubble. "I wasn't the one kidnapped."

There was a kind of vengeance inside Hawke, and whether he was born with it or only gained it over the years, it was as much a part of him as Vengeance was a part of Anders. Hawke seemed to acknowledge his rage as himself, and his inability to reason - only sometimes, but what a sight he made when he let loose that madness - with the beast within, as something he should be ashamed of.

Anders understood that need to hide, the seconds, hours, days he spent hating everything about what he was, what he had become. But Hawke had no such luxury; he lived for other people, worked with their schedules and needs and never his own.

Hawke placed his hand on the edge of the tub, rubbing a thumb over Anders' knuckles, a faint smile appearing by his mouth as their nearness dissolved his scowl.

"Call it healer's intuition," Anders said, interlacing their fingers and leaning right into his space for a kiss. His own fever had gone down for the most part, but it seemed Hawke had gained one of his own.

Hawke's fingers rested against his nape and Anders had to sigh, pulling away briefly to place his lips, not chastely at all, in the middle of Hawke's palm. He watched as a blush settled over Hawke's cheeks and grinned.

Anders licked the spot again. Hawke bit his lip without thinking, his grip tightening over the other edge of the tub.

"Anders -" Hawke said, nervous for once - always so sure, elsewhere, outside of this suite of rooms - with redness rising at the tips of his ears, "you need to rest."

"I've slept the day away," Anders pressed a kiss to the back of Hawke's hand, licking the grooves between his scarred knuckles.

"There was a lot of bane in your system," Hawke wouldn't meet his eyes; His grip loosened as though giving Anders permission to leave, a chance to choose for once whether he wished to continue this mad affair with a mad man.

_My own concoction,_ Hawke had said, with a tone reserved by other people for their children, and no wonder - magebane was always painful and the concentration was difficult to get right. The Circle formula hadn't changed in hundreds of years. Hawke's was entirely painless, highly concentrated, and came in variations, from putting a mage to sleep to leading a mage to bed.

Anders slipped an arm around Hawke's shoulders, urging him to turn. Hawke moved, a small, nearly imperceptible tilt of his whole demeanor, and his lips parted just enough to be an invitation.

People who did not know him as well would not even know he had moved - and Anders was still surprised that he was the only one to read him this way.

He was also the only one to take advantage, not minding his sleeve soaking up water as his hand traveled down the wide panes of Hawke's chest, pinching a nipple, seeing the grip on the side of the tub turn white as he tried to stay still. Then traveling further down and brushing up against his cock hidden beneath a layer of white suds, Anders found out with his fingers that the morning's abstinence had not been broken.

His mouth was already over those lips again, soft as the rest of Hawke was not, yielding with a moan as he leaned back, taut with the exertion of stillness, more so with every touch. But his posture - the way he opened up, lifting himself off the bottom of the tub with his hands and his shoulders - it spoke a contrary phrase to his refusal to touch Anders, afraid of demanding, asking for what he wanted.

"You said we'd pick up where we left off," Anders breathed the words into the shell of his ear, trailing kisses along his hairline. As his mouth raised gooseflesh on Hawke's arms, he ran his palms over those strong biceps, savoring the power he held. "When I get home."

From this angle Anders could only see strands of pure white in his hair. The top of one ear was red from steam and heated breath, so much strain in his hands it would be a matter of patience before Hawke turned the tables.

And if Anders showed any inclination to bottom for the night, Hawke would lift him into his arms and carry him to his bed, _their_ bed, now that he had agreed to stay. Anders would rather not examine why he agreed to move in too closely; it was a mad impulse, a decision made in delirium, but he had no wish to change that decision now that it had been made.

Anders leaned over the bath and pinned Hawke's shoulders to the edge, digging his fingernails with enough force to leave half crescents behind. Hawke sighed beneath him, and the crease between his brows lightened.

Couples were made with time together; mannerisms that seeped past each others' shells, language in the crinkle of eyes and the pressure under palms. Anders was still learning Hawke's subtle, quiet way of speaking, but the little things he was afraid to say was plain in the nervous lick of his lips before his eyes lit up, _kiss me._

It was getting too uncomfortable on the edge of the tub, so Anders climbed in, draping his body over Hawke. The bath was still hot enough that the water stung him, sending pinpricks of pressure along his legs, but as he sunk low enough for Hawke to realize that Anders was not wearing anything under that robe, the slight pain was quickly forgotten as they pressed against each other and the robe clung tight over his skin.

Anders scraped his nails across that strong upper back, the part of Hawke he usually held on with his hands for support, to lean on as he touched nothing else but the air and Hawke. When his hands finished their traveling from the shoulders up to the sides of his neck, and finally finding themselves secured and twined into his hair, Anders kissed him, taking command.

Lips parted and Hawke let him in, no demands, only the passive need to give. Anders lifted the wet robe and grounded down with his hips, water as poor a lubricant as air and they slid against each other in a gritty slide, and he found Hawke trembling, holding himself still and trying to keep control. Anders had to smile; he had been reining it in all day. Still cradling the back of Hawke's head with one hand, Anders trailed another hand downwards, slowly tweaking one nipple and watching the impatience creep back between those dark brows, and tried hard not to grin.

It was all about anticipation; by the time he arrived, barely containing their cocks with one hand, even with his long fingers, Hawke was hard and his balls were lifting away from his body, too hard to last more than a minute or two, and Anders just kept kissing him, licking into his mouth and nibbling at his lips.

"Anders," he called out a quick warning, mumbling around Anders' tongue, then even the willpower to hold himself still was gone and he thrust up into the circle of those pale, elegant fingers, his hands slipping from the edges of the tub.

Water splashed along Anders' back, soaking the rest of the robe that managed to stay dry. He kissed the apples blooming on Hawke's cheeks burning red with embarrassment, and said, quite close to his ear, "I think we need to get out of the bath."

They did not go far, though, nor did he allow Hawke to dry himself off. He pushed Hawke down by the shoulders, to kneel, and he misunderstood for a second and reached for Anders' thighs, wetting his lips. It was tempting to hold on to his hair and thrust inside that warm mouth, but Anders stepped back, "turn around. Put your hands on the edge of the tub."

He loved this view; Hawke holding on to something above his head, usually the headboard if they were in the bedroom, a bar made for this purpose if they were down in the basements. He touched the inside of Hawke's thighs and the dimples in his back, and Hawke would arch his back and move his knees apart, throwing glances behind him to see that he did everything just right.

But for now, Anders backed away from the view to scan the shelves. Hawke kept his potions everywhere; in the bedroom, in the bathroom, neatly labelled in his small, fine script, with the concentrations of each ingredient written down, a blank label on the other side for notes. It did not take long for Anders to find the one he needed, a small jar of greenish salve that warmed as he rolled it between his palms.

He knelt next to Hawke, slick fingers to circle his entrance while laying kisses on his shoulders; pushing his head down towards his chest to expose more skin to nibble on.

Hawke never begged - not unless he was pushed to his limits and made to beg, and he did not enjoy it. But without conscious thought he was arching his back further, urging with his body for more touch, enough encouragement for Anders to slip his fingers inside.

Anders remembered, the memories fresh from this afternoon, how it felt to be in its thrall. It was a fever like no other, a dazzling burn that tented his trousers and heated his skin, but it would not allow him to sweat, causing the heat to radiate from the inside out then kept in. All he wanted then was Hawke inside of him, but he was surrounded by people he did not know, and he was scared of what he would choose to do if these men actually touched him.

As the flush spread across Hawke's back, and his skin on his chest and his thighs begin to redden with a soft glow, it might have been Justice's righteous fury that spoke then, for the words were meant to wound, and perhaps everything Hawke needed to hear.

"How do you like a taste of your own medicine?" Anders turned his hand palm down and added a third finger, pressing firmly on the bump inside once, and Hawke cried out beneath him, louder from echoing off the tiles. It might have hurt then if not for the magebane, laced with just enough deathroot to numb any pain.

Hawke shook his head, his hair plastered to the sides of his face, and called out Anders' name again, too loudly. His breath came in quick and shallow, and Anders was reminded of the helpless feeling of being controlled by his own body, wearing a second skin that made everything feel too good; all he wanted then was for anyone to touch him.

He coated his fingers in ice and drew a line over Hawke's back, and Hawke snapped his head back up, gasping at the unexpected coolness, made colder by the heat of his own skin.

Anders crooked his fingers inside Hawke and watched the surprise hit his eyes first, and the sound of Hawke actually moaning, and this time he shook his head as though trying to clear and control it, but Anders knew first hand that it was impossible.

"Beg me to fuck you," Anders licked up the edge of Hawke's ear, knowing just how hard it was for Hawke to give in. Easier when he was chained up and could pretend to be helpless, easier if all the options and ways out were taken away. He fucked Hawke with his hand regardless, circling that spot inside and running icy fingers down his shaft. "Go on. I just had a nap. I can wait all night."

But he couldn't, not with Hawke spread and ready for him, hands gripping the edges of the tub and his eyes dark and every part of him but his mouth begging already, his cock thrusting fruitlessly into the air beneath him, matching each advance of Anders' fingers with a small twist of his hips.

"Please," Hawke said, hardly audible between the other sounds he was making. He repeated, clearer this time, "please."

"You'll have to be more specific," Anders moved his hand away from Hawke's length to his own, angling his body so that Hawke could watch him.

He reached down and brushed his palm over his sac, dragged his fingertips up over the base of his shaft, picking up a drop of precum when he reached its tip. He brought it up to his mouth slowly, meeting Hawke's widening eyes with his own, and smeared the moisture on his bottom lip.

There it glistened, and Hawke stared and licked his lips again. Anders felt Hawke clench around his fingers, and instead of obliging him, he withdrew, listening for a soft whine and watched the roll of those strong hips.

A kiss, bringing his mouth close while the sound of Hawke's breathing echoed; Hawke's tongue flicking out before he arrived, licking up the salty fluid, and he would have followed it, so desperate for touch that he forgot his role for the night, if not for Anders pushing him back in a firm reminder.

"Please," followed by something so quiet Anders barely heard him, and Hawke tried again. "I can't -"

"I want to hear it," Anders moved and his words buzzed against Hawke's temple, following his hairline down to his ear again, "I want to hear just how much you want me."

Hawke had never denied Anders anything. Sometimes he delayed, but he never denied.

"Anders, I -" Hawke licked his lips, breath short and shallow and his eyes dazed from the heat. "I always want you."

Anders had to rest his chin over Hawke's shoulder then, or his blushing would have shown a weakening of his resolve otherwise. He danced fingers over Hawke's side, down the lines that defined his hip, brushing over a patch of hair and stopped, not quite there, "tell me."

"I want you. I want you inside of me," and if it was Hawke on the other side, Hawke holding Anders' desire hostage, then those words would not have been enough. When the tables were turned, Hawke was only capable of so much submission.

It had taken them months to get even this far. Until he was closer to his release, until he was truly desperate, that was all Anders could get out of him.

Quickly, Anders positioned himself, bracing his hands on Hawke's hips and rubbing his thumbs over the dimples in his back. He was patient that first time they were together, but as his hands slipped down to palm the firm flesh of his buttocks, spreading them apart, Hawke turned his head to look at him, pleading _now_ with this eyes. It became impossible then to tease any longer.

Anders pushed through the first tight ring already prepared with salve, then waited for Hawke's body to allow him in. Hawke rippled around him, too tight, feverish hot, and each slow push made Hawke cry out and clench even more. When at last he sighed, _now,_ , Anders moved in the rest of the way in one smooth glide, taking a deep breath as Hawke wrapped himself around his cock tightly, almost painfully so; each time it was the same adjustment but he could never get used to this - this was something that could never become 'common' for him, so much strength under his palms, every last inch of Hawke perfectly sculpted to swing a sword, and every last inch of him _his_.

Sometimes he wondered how he came to be so lucky. Anders walked his hands forward and curled over Hawke, resting his cheek down between his shoulder blades and settled into a lazy rhythm, trying not to come as soon as they began. Beneath him Hawke shook and called out as the angle changed, biting his knuckles raw trying to keep his voice down.

But Anders set an agonizing pace, and he kept each slide shallow - just enough to touch that spot but not enough to bring release. And meanwhile he was heating up himself as well, his breathing picking up as the drug that eased their joining began to effect him.

It was a strange burn, a yearning from the inside, an ache as though he was suddenly empty and needed to be stretched and filled. He couldn't last long; not while his desires were divided and forcing him to choose. Anders turned his head and placed a kiss in the middle of Hawke's back; then his body's rhythm took over, each pull nearly parted them and each thrust joined them as one. His skin stretched tight over his cock, so tight he could feel every inch sliding in again, until every touch was too much and Anders wrapped his arms over Hawke's waist, slamming his body mindlessly forward, fingers leaving bruises and raised welts, claiming the man in his arms as his own.

As he drove in that one last time, stuttering to stillness and his cries echoing loudly, ringing in his ears, the spasms that passed through his body barely contained, Hawke clenched tight around him and milked him purposefully, drawing out every last drop of pleasure, for Anders, or for himself, he no longer knew; the two were indistinguishable in their passion.

"Hawke," Anders gasped, taking mouthfuls of air, still joined with his lover but the sensation touched the edge of pain. "Enough. _Oh,_ stop."

In the end Anders had to still him with his hands, kneading his arse and forcing himself away; the burning need not of himself, but something insidious tasting metallic, like blood, in the back of his throat, urging him to dive in again and keep fucking Hawke to his last ounce of strength.

All the while his mind reminded him that he was empty still, and he could see why Hawke kept rubbing his arse against Anders, trying to make Anders take him again. The orichalcum in his blood demanded it, but Anders felt the same hunger as the aftershocks made his cock jump and his hole clench over nothing.

"Let's go to bed," Anders backed up and away from Hawke, his steps unsteady as if drunk, but instead of a need to giggle incessantly, as he was wont to do in the days when alcohol affected him at all, he had a focus.

All of it was on Hawke's body and the way his muscles moved as he pushed away from the large tub, the ripple in his arms as he stretched to reach for a towel, his cock jutting out in front of him, hard again from their union. Hawke rubbed the towel over his hair, sighing loudly at the sensation, and Anders couldn't help thinking that he was just showing off - the underside of his arms and the edges of his chest glowing in candlelight while he shook out his hair like a big cat.

He was a tiger on the prowl, eying its prey. The image came to mind as Hawke dropped the towel after drying his shoulders, leaving water droplets on his chest and a trail of white flowing down the inside of one thigh, taking purposeful strides towards Anders.

"I -" Hawke began, putting a hand to his forehead and shaking to clear it, bringing clarity back into his eyes. He breathed out slowly, holding tight to the rail that ran along the walls of the bathroom, and he leaned back on the tiles that were warm, but still cooler than his skin, "you should leave. Now."

Anders might have been hurt if he was any less sure of Hawke's intentions, no doubt another bout of guilt at the monster he thought he was. He smiled instead, "why?"

Hawke looked almost pained, his breathing laboured, "I'm not sure if I can hold back."


	6. Penance

Anders crossed the length of the bathroom to place his hands on top of Hawke's chest, feeling the slight quivering in his lungs beneath. Brushing Hawke's nipples with his thumbs, Anders heard a soft growl from above him, and he raised his eyes and stared back, meeting Hawke, as blue as the sky reflected in a lake - on a very windy day.

"I can," Anders smoothed his hands down over the hard edges of Hawke's body, sliding his fingers over the places in between, the join of hips and thighs, the sensitive line between thighs and groin, the seam between his buttocks. Two fingers slipped in easily, not deep at all, only there to play; hand behind his neck, pulling Hawke down to meet him, an odd angle for a kiss.

Anders forced Hawke's mouth open with his tongue, taking control with bites and licks and pulling Hawke's lower lip half into his mouth. His hand twisted and thrust inside Hawke, and the rest of him pressed against a hard chest, hard stomach, hard cock not nearly lining up with his own.

When his jaw rubbed over Hawke's stubble they both shivered, and Anders spoke low into the side of his neck, since keeping his hand where it was made it impossible to reach Hawke's ears, "when I let you go, you will go into the bedroom, lie down in bed on your back. And you will spread your legs and wait for me."

There was no need for Hawke to worry about his control, Anders tried to remind him, leaving more bruises on his thighs; if what Hawke wanted was forgiveness, then Anders would have him give penance, but not in the way he thought Anders would take it.

He waited until Hawke was in the bedroom before switching his wet robe for a dry towel. And he smiled, emerging from the bathroom, to find that Hawke had carried out his command to the letter. Finding a toy in the dresser he would need and a different bottle of salve that did the exact same thing with less lyrium and more orichalcum, he settled between Hawke's legs.

Meanwhile, Hawke had not even raised a single eyebrow to question Anders' right to order him around in the bedroom. Submission did not come to him easily; honest words even less so. If the drug affected Hawke the same way it did Anders, that sensation of emptiness was neigh unbearable. As it was, Anders had to consciously stop himself from climbing atop Hawke and riding into sweet oblivion.

The toy in his hand slipped on the sweat in his palm. It was one of the few toys he asked Hawke to keep in the bedroom instead of the cellars, a small metal plug, barely three inches long and smooth all over, possibly the most innocent looking thing in the hidden closet.

Anders ran his hands reverently up the inside of Hawke's thighs. Months into their affair, and still every time he did this it felt as though he held a tamed beast, barely contained; Hawke weighed at least twice as much and physically stonger by a league, but on days where he chose to submit - and in their bedroom he always had a choice - he did so beautifully.

It was his nature to perform to perfection, even if it was only to wave his arse beneath Anders' hand as blow after blow rained down on firm flesh. Not tonight; tonight was for other affirmations, and forgiveness did not necessarily arise from punishment.

For now Anders just wanted to smooth his hands over the whole of him, run his fingers over the bare skin in between, from the back of his calves to his thighs, in the line under his buttocks. But he was running out of patience. Warming the salve between his hands, Anders slicked the plug and pushed it inside Hawke quickly, watching as that place swallowed it up as though it hungered, watching Hawke's eyes glaze over as the rounded tip bumped against his sweet spot.

The sight of Hawke moving his hips to get more stimulation, his lips parted to pant, the flush over his skin that made him look beautifully wanton and wild, all irresistible and his; each second he waited became torturous. Anders handed the open jar of salve and turned around, knees on either side of Hawke, ankles under his shoulders.

He felt a finger touch his entrance and arched his back, pushing against it, taking steady breaths to let it in.

Hawke had large hands with wide, long fingers accustomed to holding a glass vial completely still while he poured in reagents one drop at a time. There was nothing quite like the patience of those fingers pushing inside, even just one was enough and two on the edge of too much.

Anders tried to focus on his own task, licking the base of Hawke's wide shaft, running his tongue over the skin of his sac and smoothing salve over the crown, but as that first finger finally breached him, pushing through to gently run circles around his spot, he cried out with the blinding pleasure of being touched so precisely, each brush with that agile finger setting off sparks behind his eyelids.

"Hawke, stop that," it felt amazing but it was too soon to come again without embarrassment, even if Hawke never judged him. Anders turned his gaze to find Hawke gazing back, glassy eyed, "just get me ready."

A hand clasped his hip, holding Anders steady but not for control. Hawke never had to use force to hold him in place. But to prevent Anders from injuring himself in his excitement, sometimes force was necessary.

Hawke would admit to being a beast, but while it was just the two of them in their corner of the world, he was the most accommodating lover Anders could ask for.

Anders whimpered as he felt the burn, a sharp stinging pain as two fingers barely pushed in, and he strained backwards only to find that Hawke had him, held him gently between his hands even while Anders was impatient with his body's own resistance. He fought down the urge to clench over the digits as a third was added, the sting of it making him cry out.

"Too fast?" Hawke asked, the first words he spoke since the bath. He never asked for anything, never begged unless he was prompted, but if he thought Anders was in pain, his concern made him break all the rules.

"Don't stop," Anders shook his head, and the fingers moved in past the second knuckle and the pain intensified until he thought he was splitting in half, holding his breath, and on the off-beat letting out too much air, then when it finally subsided his body was pulsing, a rush of blood on every beat on the inside, on the tip of his cock, over the shells of his ears. By then he could not control his voice any longer, and he was not sure if he spoke at all, but he wanted to let Hawke know that it was _enough_ , fingers had done as much as they could and he was ready for more.

Then Hawke was pulling Anders back against his chest, so in his babbling he must have gave some intelligible signal of what he needed. Before his body had a chance to clam up and refuse to take any more, Anders gripped Hawke's knees and sank down over the wide crown, and with all the preparation it still stretched him apart even more and he shook with the pain. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as Hawke nuzzled his nape, stubble brushing softly over skin, holding him close and taking his softened cock in hand in a bid to distract him from the intrusion.

When finally they were joined again, back to front and somehow fitting better with Anders in the center of Hawke's attention, he held on to Hawke's knee for support as he trembled, both of them shaking. Hawke breathed deep to send hot air across Anders' neck, his legs tight and perfectly still; as Anders rocked his hips and attempted to fit Hawke entirely inside, he heard a groan by his ear, a plea to wait lest it would be over before they began.

Hawke's shoulders shadowed Anders, and with one arm around his torso and another down by his groin and his breath by Anders' neck, their legs crisscrossing below them, Anders was encompassed entirely.

Perhaps what Hawke expected when he gave up control was punishment for all the things he had done, for the drugs he made that had a part in Anders' kidnapping, for losing his grip on his rage, for nearly killing a child. But Anders couldn't give him that; the games they played were not based on who was right or wrong, who _needed_ punishment for crimes and who did not. They were challenges to each other, and in these games they were equal. If Hawke could call himself a monster, then Anders was the same.

Anders turned in Hawke's embrace, setting off a fresh set of moans, and their lips met edge to bottom, his stubble scraping against Hawke's jaw. It was awkward and their bodies did not fit; it was comfortable and right and they fit perfectly.

He wanted to tell Hawke then, that he loved him.

His mouth was open and so close to letting the words spill out, but he met Hawke's bright blue eyes, dark with need for him and beyond that - trust, complete and irrevocable - and Anders realized that he need not say anything at all.

Instead he gathered lightning at his fingertips, tiny sparks of energy barely stronger than static, and sent it downwards. Hawke jerked behind him, his arms tightening too far for one second, the electricity traveling through the plug and passed to Anders as a tingle, not enough to force him to come, but enough of a reminder that Anders had Hawke's release in his hands.

Anders raised himself just far enough above to feel the loss of what filled him so completely, bracing his hands on Hawke's knees, before sinking down again, willingly falling into his gentle grasp. The next rising did not feel as overwhelming, and the next he felt whole, the next time he came down he was riding, rubbing the underside of his cock against Hawke, alternating between being filled to the brim and unbearable emptiness.

Always, those arms around him, catching him when he slid too far or too fast or when he shook from the intensity of it, turning him just enough to catch a kiss against Hawke's jaw when he paused.

He sent little currents of electricity down there when he had the capacity to remember, enough to keep Hawke steely hard and over sensitive, and it was a true testament to his self-control that Hawke hadn't come as soon as the first spark flew. Hawke was moving ever closer to his inevitable release, the blush deepening over his ears and Anders could sympathize, for the sound of his pulse, blood rushing through his feverish skin was as loud as the sound they made between their bodies.

When he knew he could hold on no longer, Anders sent out one last jolt, stronger than all the rest, and sank down again as he felt it along Hawke like ungrounded static, a buzz of warmth that he could pick up with his fingertips. Hawke buried his face into the crook of Anders' neck, and their calls were in unison though the words were not the same.

His skin was a shell stretched too tight and his channel clenched down on Hawke, somehow hardening further inside of him; Anders felt it quiver against his taut walls, and he dropped his cheek over Hawke's shoulder, allowing himself to fall over the edge with him.

Allowing Hawke to catch him.

For that moment it was unclear which one of them was submitting to the other, though it did not seem to matter then; his body clamped down, and the flutter in his arms, in his lungs, beneath his stomach and the organ that pumped blood to ring in his ears, the spasm traveled through him to Hawke, and the weakness in his knees made him pause but he did not want to stop.

Anders pulled Hawke forward, just a hint of direction, and they tumbled into the sheets, then Hawke was behind him, holding him still and he pumped near recklessly, wrapping his fingers over Anders' neglected arousal, adding to their pleasure as they rode out the last few thrusts, to their hearts' irregular rhythm, to the frantic shouts Anders tried to bury, unsuccessfully, in the coverlets.

When he could think again he saw his hands stretched in front of him, wrapped in the red silk sheets; Hawke's hands over his own, one thumb rubbing back and forth as if he could not believe what he touched was real.

Another man might have collapsed on top of him, but Hawke rolled them to their sides, brushing blond hair out of the way; it had become a bit of a habit, repeated every time they were close in bed, and at first Anders wondered what the gesture was for.

He had since learned that Hawke always did it so as not to pull on Anders' hair by accident.

He felt an inexplicable urge to giggle, even laugh. But there was nothing particularly funny here, and he did not quite know how to process the glee that threatened to overwhelm. There was a bubbling of lightheaded vertigo, a feeling of blood rushing all to his ears, like diving in Lake Calenhad for the first time in one of his escapes from the Circle.

"What's so funny?" Hawke kissed the corner of his mouth, near the dimple that showed when he smiled.

He must have been grinning like an idiot; Anders tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, pointing out the neat bundle rolled out of the way behind his head, "you always do that."

Maybe Hawke understood. His family was full of mages after all, and they spent years on the run not knowing when the templars would come. Never time enough to learn another person's habits, or to recognize mannerisms repeated over weeks, months, and it might have been madness that made Anders dare the word, even unspoken; years.

"It's in the way," there it was again, the quick evasion. But the kiss he placed on Anders' nape afterwards, warm and lingering, gave a meaning the opposite of his words. "And that makes you want to laugh?"

By way of answering, Anders turned and kissed him. It was easier than all the words simmering in his thoughts, and there was fear as well, always crawling in the back of his mind.

The fear that if he admitted to affection and love, it could be taken away.

His heart was still beating too fast, and he was not sure if he could blame the drugs any longer. They were both lucid again, their eyes clear, and the burn had turned down to a simmer. But Anders could be quite certain that he still wanted more of Hawke, because he always wanted more of Hawke.

And Hawke held him, fingers twined in his messy long hair, hand drawing lines over and over the length of his spine. Wonderful man, Anders thought, his very own wonderful, selfless, heroic, egotistical twit. Then he was smiling again; a contagious, wild impulse.

"Kiss me," Anders said, high on whatever this flutter in his heart meant and the moment, where everything was exactly where it should be. There were enough poetry in the Circle tower to dwarf the Viscount's library, so he quoted, "kiss me before I die."

Hawke raised an eyebrow this time, "where did that come from?"

"I'm just -" _happy._ "In the mood for poetry."

Whatever feeling it was that came over Anders, it did not leave him, not even when it was dawn again and Hawke was exhausted and declared that he was taking the next day off, Fenris be damned.

Not a single word of blame was spoken; not a letter of forgiveness. Like so many other big decisions they had made together, this one joined the rest in not having a tangible contract. By the next week, Anders would have had most of his things moved in, and Hawke would have his guards shadow Anders everywhere, and very little would have changed aside from how they referred to the world around them: their room, their bed. _Are you coming home tonight?_

"Are you sure you want to move in here?" Hawke asked. The light coming through the gauzy, white curtains - that Anders was considering replacing, since they did next to nothing aside from decoration - had begun to slant against the walls, and the sun was setting over hightown.

It would be a while yet before it finally leave the cliffs below the city, in darktown. The days were shorter here.

And Hawke was giving him a way out, a last chance to change his mind.

Anders echoed, "are you sure you want _me_ living with you?"

"Hmm," he pulled Anders back against him, turning another page. There was no answer here; there never was any question, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders quoted the Canterbury Tales, the [Wife of Bath's prologue](http://www.librarius.com/canttran/wifetale/wifetale794-834.htm).
> 
> WAY WAY back when I wrote City of Chains, the ending was completely different, and Anders quoted it when he was drunk. Halfway through the story I rewrote it, added another 20k words, and Anders didn't quote anything.
> 
> So now he did. And it is strangely appropriate for this pair.


	7. Epilogue - Endings

It was inevitable, really. And he really should have expected it.

Varric had the worst luck. When he did not think he had the worst luck, he realized that he associated with the worst kind of people.

People with no consideration for others, for example; people who believed that they could change words around after the entire booklet was made ready for printing.

Fenris had the latest copy of the manifesto in his hands; the latest, because its creator had the audacity to cross out entire paragraphs and add new ones after they finalized every last word for the two-hundredth time.

"It's ready to print! It's already printing," he told the elf, hands firmly on the large table in his room and clearly not taking the stack of messy handwriting proffered. "I can't stop the press just because Hawke says so."

Fenris plunked down a stack of sovereigns on the table, ten at least, enough to cover the cost of two runs. "Then scrap the first and distribute the second."

Well, maybe not the worst friends. Especially when said friend's lover was richer than the Viscount.

Varric chuckled, sliding the coins into his pouch before the elf could change his mind. "What's the extra for? The boss isn't known for his generosity."

"You don't know him very well," Fenris quirked an eyebrow. "Two sovereigns for the boy with a brood to feed. You're paying him peanuts."

"I pay him the same as I pay all the other couriers and I keep his routes safe."

"Peanuts," Fenris repeated.

"Give Cricket a raise," Varric pursed his lips to a tight line. Mumbling the rest that failed to escape Fenris' sharp ears. "Or Hawke will come down like a bag full of bricks. I get the picture."

"I never said that."

"Harlan told me in graphic detail what he found in Brekker's old hideout," Varric feigned a shudder. "Granted, I asked for the details. It's all going into the new book. But the rules hasn't changed since I met him: cross Hawke and die."

"Hmm," the corner of Fenris' mouth twitched an almost smile.

And for once, Varric knew better than to press for details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three different "ending slides" for three different characters were implied. So, endings.
> 
> Thank you for sticking through it all!


End file.
